


Winter Cricket Drabbles 2018

by maythefoursbewithyou



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Drabbles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 16:56:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15667389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maythefoursbewithyou/pseuds/maythefoursbewithyou
Summary: Black Caps past and present in various ships. Originally posted to tumblr but moving to AO3 for reasons of national security.





	1. For Better or For Worse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jiminyneesham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiminyneesham/gifts), [AlbieGeorge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlbieGeorge/gifts), [Angels_in_Fishnets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angels_in_Fishnets/gifts), [idontevenknowwhatrascasseis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idontevenknowwhatrascasseis/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for @jiminyneesham
> 
> Prompt:  
> Tim and Trent realising he deserves better

‘You’ve always liked the bad boys.’ 

Three years later, the words with which Trent Boult was set free have cause to plague him, not for the first time or the last. 

Kane’s face was inscrutable as he spoke. It’s an expression that’s become more and more familiar to Trent since Brendan retired, since Kane took on the mantle of captaincy. And just now, as BJ and Kane inch closer to each other in the dressing room, mirroring each other’s stance, Trent is keenly aware of the glimmer in Kane’s eyes, the ease in his mouth. It’s evident from yards away. A younger, lighthearted Kane: the Kane that once reserved affection for Trent and Trent only. 

Trent reads the text again, phone in his right hand, beer in the left. 

Sorry babe. Mitch called. Gone to the Shore for the night. I suck. Will make it up to you, promise.

He wants to smash his beer against the floor, but instead he laughs, and raises the green glass bottle to his lips and sucks back a mouthful. And another. 

Tomorrow, Tim will turn up at his house, sometime in the late afternoon. He’ll have taken the time to shower and shave. Clean pressed clothes. Aftershave. A professionally wrapped gift under his arm. He’ll make some joke about being a fuckup, and invite himself inside. He won’t bother to apologise, or promise to change his ways. 

Trent will forgive him anyway, probably even make some shit-eating joke about it all. 

At least, with Dale, there was always a used-by date on their affair. Trent knew exactly where he stood. There was never enough time to get attached. 

Kane was dead right, of course: usually is. Trent’s drawn, for better or for worse, to men that smell like danger, and taste like sweat, that make him cum hard and then sneak out in the wee hours. Wham bam thank you man, too hedonistic for pleasantries like an I love you or a cuddle. 

‘For better or for worse.’ There’s no better about it, only bitter. 

Best not to dwell on it too much, eh, so he drains the beer and picks himself up from his seat, orders himself back to aggressive cheerfulness and giggling that over the top titter. No-one needs to know it’s all an act. He pesters Sants, Ish and Cozza into a game of poker, which may or may not involve the removal of what’s left of their grass stained cricket whites. What goes on in the dressing room stays in the dressing room.


	2. Come At Me, Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for @albiegeorge
> 
> Prompt:  
> Could you write a Kiwi pairing of your choice but that you haven’t written before/much, for the prompt: Kiwi1 offers comfort and ridicule after Kiwi2 injures himself and his ego by being clumsy/an idiot/distracted by Kiwi1/all of the above. Featuring kissing it better.

Jimmy grins. Seriously? This is a gimme. He’s straight into the famous Neesham pull shot, and swivels, swatting the kookaburra against the netting.

‘That all you got? Come at me, brother,’ he tells Lockie. He strides to the ball, picks it up and returns it to the fasty with a gentle underarm.

Ball meets bowler’s right hand. ‘Oh really? Come at you?’ he repeats, his eyes narrowing quizzically. ‘You sure, mate? You want the full hundred fiddy?’ He wipes his fuzzy top lip with his sleeve.

‘Pfft. Schmundred fiddy,’ Jimmy says. He waits till Lockie’s back is turned, till he’s walking out to meet his mark, and then calls after him, ‘One trick pony.’

All he’ll have to do is distract little Lockie, make him giggle, and that blink-and-you’ll-miss-it bowling will be reduced to a wonky amateurism. 

Lockie’s at the top of his mark, and he turns to face his padded-up team-mate. Their gazes meet. Lockie steps into his run.

Smirking, James taps his bat, and bobs his arse in time, trying to make it look as rhythmic as he can. The Colin Munro twerk. He’s pouting it out, and grinding as if he’s an animal with worms, looking for relief by itching against some invisible stump.

If Lockie has registered any part of this performance, he doesn’t show it. He fires his red-hot missile, it pitches and drives upward, meeting a still-clowning Jimmy smack between the legs. The man stiffens and topples, a mere pin in a bowling alley.

‘Jesus!’ he shrieks. He’s in the fetus position, clutching his box. Lockie’s doubled over too, his hand over his mouth, failing to suppress laughter. 

It takes what seems like forever for the Jesus-God-Christ-Shit-Fuck first act of the agony to subside. Once Jimmy’s caught his breath, he glares over at the giggling Lockie. ‘What the fuck was that, mate?’

‘Could ask the same of you. Pretty sure that move looks better at a nightclub than on a cricket pitch. And even then, it’s iffy.’

‘Yeah well, when you’re done laughing at my expense, could you help me up?’ The imploring expression on his face just adds to the amusement, but all the same, Lockie gets himself together, taking his sweet time to walk over to a prone James. He extends his hand. Jimmy eyes it dubiously, like it might bite him, before grabbing hold of it and gingerly pulling up to his feet. 

‘Again?’ suggests Lockie, brightly.

He receives a murderous glance by way of reply. 

‘Come on then, princess. Let’s get you back to the dressing room, eh?’ Lockie puts an arm around Jimmy’s waist, the better to assist Jimmy to duck-walk along. 

But the first step makes Jimmy suck his breath in sharply and wince. ‘The box is cracked, and the skin of my…’

‘Don’t finish that sentence,’ Lockie cuts him off. He grimaces, remembering what that feels like, without really wanting to. ‘Let me sort it out.’ He relinquishes his hold on Jimmy’s waist, and moves in front of Jimmy, sinking down to his knees, to help Jimmy out of his hip pads. Then he peels Jimmy’s shorts down. Sure enough, there’s a sliver of blue fabric wedged through the split in the box. ‘This might hurt,’ he warns, and as gently as he can, he manouevres one hand inside the box, and places the other on the outside, and eases the edges of the split a little wider, to free poor Jimmy’s underwear and with it the skin of his crown jewels.

Jimmy whimpers, but the sigh he emits when he’s out of harm’s way is audible. 

‘I could kiss it better,’ Lockie smirks up at him.

‘You little shit!’ Talk about the worst timing. Jimmy’s dreamed of plunging his cock inside Lockie’s mouth on more nights than he cares to admit - but he’s a thousand percent sure the guy’s joking. And, more importantly: THE PAIN, THE PAIN. He’s lightheaded; coloured spots dance in his vision, and he could just about throw up.

Once Jimmy’s escorted back into the pavilion, he peels off his pads and helmet, and finds the nearest massage table to lay down on. Lockie gets an ice pack from the freezer, and wraps it up inside a training shirt. ‘Got you a present, asshat.’

More side-eye. ‘I’m not sure I want any more gifts from you.’ 

‘I promise I’ll be gentle.’ Lockie’s tone is mocking, all the same, he’s oh-so considerate when he presses the wrapped-up ice pack against Jimmy’s groin. Their hands brush together as Jimmy takes over possession of the ice pack. Then, without thinking, Lockie combs his fingers through Jimmy’s hair.

He snatches his hand back as if he’s just touched a hot element. ‘Uh,’ he grunts, not at all sure why he did what he just did. Weird.

‘Aww,’ Jimmy whines. ‘I was enjoying that.’

Lockie bites his lower lip. It was kind of nice. Like, tender, or something. He blinks, and snakes his fingers through Jimmy’s hair again. His hair’s fine and silky, like a freshly shampooed golden retriever.

Would probably feel good if Jimmy did that to him, too. 

(Oddly pleasing thoughts about strong jawlines and eyes of the lightest shade of blue.)

He bends down, mid-hair-stroke, and parts Jimmy’s lips with his tongue, and finds himself locked in the greediest kiss he’s ever known.


	3. What's In A Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for @Angels_In_Fishnets
> 
> A prompt you really don't have to write but I'd love it if you did: Hamish Marshall/Jimmy Neesham Welcome to Wellington (with optional name awkwardness).

When Jimmy saunters through the arrival gate, clean-shaven with a wisp of untamed hair static out in front, Hamish is struck again by how tall he is. Of course, he often has cause to be daunted by the height of your typical fasty, but Jimmy’s is a particular kind of tall that seems to stretch further through excellent posture.

‘Kia ora, skip,’ Jimmy says, with that upward gesture of chin common to Kiwi men, that signifies fraternal acknowledgement. His perfect pronounciation of the te reo greeting – sounding out all the vowels but somehow rolling it all together into two syllables - solicits in Hamish a momentary shame. The best he’s ever been able to manage is a nasal ‘Key Aura’.

‘Welcome to Wellywood, Jimmy.’ They tag hands, and Hamish turns to walk in step with Jimmy, to head for baggage claim.

‘Dear God, do the locals really call it that?’ Jimmy says, expecting no response, and rushing on, ‘And please, it’s James.’

Hamish does a double take. Jimmy’s always been a Jimmy. Why confuse everyone this late in the piece? ‘Might take a bit of getting used to, mate. You used to prefer “Jimmy”. Plus. You know. Me, twin, James.’ 

Jimmy’s got a stride to match the length of his limbs, and Hamish throws a little extra impetus in his own to keep up. ‘Rumour has it that Jimmy Neesham wasn’t taken very seriously, but I figured if I got everyone to call me James,’ he smirks, ‘Then it could paper over a multitude of inappropriate tweets and erratic bowling lines. In short: get used to it.’

Ahhh, it makes sense. Jimmy – James! Is trying to start afresh here in Wellington, for his new team, and leave behind the fracas of recent years. Maybe James figures he can sneak his way back into Gavin Larsen, Black Caps chief selector’s good graces with a token nod at change.

Hamish is not comforted by the sound of this attitude, and wonders what sort of worm the Firebirds’ coach has pulled out of the apple. ‘Mate, your bowling lines are going to be the first thing under the microscope. And, for the record, I’m not above vetting your social media presence, so don’t give me a reason to.’ He doesn’t relish putting down the hard word, but a good captain has to set the tone. 

Hands go up in surrender. ‘Just kidding, skip.’ They’re at the conveyor belt now, and Hamish grabs a trolley for Jimmy to load his gear onto.

No matter the change in moniker, James is still acting like an unrepentant Jimmy. 

—

Smells like one too, in the evening deep in a team dinner at Mexico Wellington on Dixon Street. Burritos and chimichangas have long been shoveled away and now the boys are running salt after lemon wedge after shot glass of tequila Jimmy’s seated between both his new skippers, teasing Hamish’s nose with a mix of alcohol, sweat and hair product. 

That’s not all he’s teasing, and shit, Hamish’s glad for the liquor induced silliness and the dim lighting, hoping that it’s enough that no-one notices Jimmy’s hand stroking at the top of Hamish’s thigh.

—

‘Sure, skip, you can call me Jimmy,’ Jimmy murmurs languidly in some seedy alleyway off Courtenay Place, somewhere between fistfuls of curly hair and mouthfuls of tongue.

‘Right now,’ replies Hamish, just before Jimmy lets him slip his eager hand inside his jeans, ‘I’d call you Jesus Mary and Joseph if you told me to.’

‘Uhhh,’ Jimmy groans in sweet relief as Hamish wraps his fist around his thick member, ‘But I wasn’t finished,’ he says. ‘You can call me Jimmy. IF you let me call you James.’

Hamish kisses Jimmy harder, and administers a particularly squeezy pump. He’s always had a thing for the twisted ones.


	4. Untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for @saintedevot
> 
> Hello! Could you do something involving henry nicholls, tom latham and farm kittens if thats ok with you please? <3

The moving guys close the back end of the truck, and Tom Latham and Henry Nicholls watch from the verandah as a pair of rough looking dudes hop into the cab and drive back down the long gravel road. 

Their life awaits in the homestead, all boxed up and bubble wrapped, but it’s been a hectic few weeks packing and cleaning up the townhouse they recently sold, ready for its new owners to move in, so some quiet moments on their camping chairs with mugs of hot chocolate in hand to let it all sink in can’t hurt. The sun is looking to complete its arc over the sky, inching inexorably toward the embrace of the Southern Alps. Dreams for their West Eyreton lifestyle block are in reaching distance: a second, smaller shed and enclosure for chickens. A few goats grazing in the paddock. Walks in the countryside with a pair of panting border collies. 

The dreaded overgrown rose garden, that they’re going to have to deal to at some stage, though neither of them feels any motivation to navigate the thorny infestation before them. 

Once the moving company truck is out of sight, there’s barely a vehicle passing by on this back road nestled deep in the Canterbury plains. The only sounds are the twittering of sparrows in the tips of the ti koukas, and the faint staccato of dog conversation from neighbouring farmlets. Henry swirls the last mouthfuls of milky chocolate around in his mug before swallowing them, and remarks that he’s going to continue unpacking the kitchen so that he can get started on dinner. He draws himself out of his chair.

‘You want some help?’ says Tom, half-heartedly, with no intention of moving from his spot.

‘You sound so convincing,’ Toey replies, dropping a dollop of sarcasm in his tone. He flicks Tom’s ear on the way past.

‘Ow!’ 

Toey’s one foot off the welcome mat when he’s given reason to pause by the crunch of tyres on the gravel driveway. He turns around, making out the silver of Matt Henry’s Lexus rolling toward them.

‘Looks like we have company,’ says Tom. ‘Did you invite the Anderson hyphen Henry’s for dinner?’ 

‘Hell no. If they want fed, they’re going to have to be content with sitting on the floor and eating chicken stir fry.’

The Lexus pulls up below the verandah steps, the engine cuts, and Tom and Toey descend to greet their uninvited guests. Matt gets out of the driver seat and opens one of the rear doors, bringing out a stack of pizza boxes and a plastic bag molded with the unmistakable form of a 1.5L of soft drink. Shotgun side, Corey brings out a mysterious brown cardboard box. 

Tom and Toey look at each other. They’re not going to turn pizza away right now, not for anything.

‘Sorry to drop in unannounced,’ says Matt, as he and Corey approach. ‘It was Corey’s idea.’

(Corey scoffs).

‘We thought you might be hungry after the big move, so we brought pizza, and a housewarming gift,’ Matt nods to the box that Corey’s balancing in his arms and cooing to. The box is squeaking like a chorus of rusty doorhinges.

‘Pizza sounds amazing,’ Toey says, relieved that he’s off cooking duties and can now delay the whole kitchen ordeal til the morning.

‘Why is that box squeaking?’ says Tom, eyeing Corey’s cardboard box with naked suspicion. ‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve brought us a litter of kittens. Who are going to pee all over our carpet and scratch the leather lounge suite.’

Toey’s face lights up like a supermoon. ‘Kittens? Little, tiny, helpless, baby kittens? For cuddling?’

Corey and Matt exchange concerned glances. They hadn’t counted on Tommy being so… rational. ‘Shall we go inside and open the box somewhere secure?’ Corey suggests. 

Toey leads them up the verandah steps, where he takes the pizza boxes out of Matt’s hands and leaves them resting on one of the camping chairs. Tom brings up the rear muttering something about the last thing we need getting under feet when we’re trying to unpack. All the same, he follows them to what will become the laundry room, at the rear of the house, which has a lino surface perfect for mopping up any… accidents. He closes the door behind them and the four of them arrange themselves into sitting positions amidst boxes, an ironing board, dryer and washing machine. 

‘Hurry up, the suspense is killing me!’ Toey begs, gazing longingly at the box on Corey’s lap. 

‘Shhh,’ Corey hushes him, and carefully sets about unfolding the cardboard flaps with thick fingers. As the box is opened, the mewling is louder and more distinct. Four heads cluster, peering inside, where three small, furry, blue-eyed balls of tabby fluff clamour in instinctual need.

‘Dear God!’ Toey and Tom exclaim, at exactly the same time but with markedly different tones.

‘Guys,’ Tom sighs, under the weight of having to let everyone down. ‘Look, they’re really… cute and everything,’ (somehow, he manages to give the word “cute” the connotation of “annoying”) ‘but we can’t keep these kittens. For a start, Toey is allergic to cats -‘

Toey interjects: ‘I don’t care.’

‘Hm-hmm,’ Tom clears his throat, ‘But we’re utterly unprepared to look after kittens. We don’t have kitten food or a litter tray. And they’ll piss all over the carpet and destroy our furniture.’

‘Spoilsport! Killjoy! Cruella DeVille! You vile… kitten-hater!’ Toey cries. 

‘I am unmoved,’ Tom replies.

Toey pouts, ascending into high drama. ‘I don’t even know who you are anymore.’ 

Quietly, Matt offers some explanation. Or emotional manipulation, depending on how you look at it. ‘You don’t have to take them, but they don’t have anywhere else to go. It’s just, we saw them at the Catnap Café and thought of you. They were found starving in a barn out Southbridge way, and no-one knows what happened to their mother. They’re completely helpless. But we thought of everything. We’ve got litter and kitten food in the boot.’

Tom purses his lips and glances at the door, but it’s too late. Toey is already reaching inside the box and picking the smallest kitten out. He thrusts it in Tom’s face. 

‘Please Tom,’ he wheedles. ‘Just look at her. Look this orphan baby in the eye and tell her you don’t care.’

‘Eeeee,’ says a tiny, high-pitched furface, blue eyes open full in pathetic supplication.

In horror, Tom crumbles, registering some evil alchemy take place inside him, his once stony heart transmuting into warm custard. Against his own better judgement, he reaches for the fluffball before him and cradles her against his chest.

‘I hate you guys,’ are his final defeated words on the matter.


End file.
